


i've been (touching you)

by pally (palliris)



Series: do you feel it? [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: :), :/, Breakfast, Domestic, Like, M/M, Morning After, Steve can cook, how would he survive the time that his parents spend away, if he couldnt, some vague descriptions of a sexual nature, vague descriptions of what is most DEFINITELY ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 17:26:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12586948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palliris/pseuds/pally
Summary: Steve's never really been good at the whole domestic thing.





	i've been (touching you)

**Author's Note:**

> FUCK YALL why is this happening why am i. so into this. what the f00k. hank, when u finally finish stranger things 2 and possibly come read these fics, just know im probably still suffering when that time rolls around. 
> 
> (this is set directly after the first fic in this series, tho u dont need to read the first one to get this one)
> 
> ugh god okay i just want to write them 24/7, also someone pls tell me what is up with 1980s kids and, like, wearing those weird, chafing blue jeans that constantly showcase their dick, because steve and billy both wear them and it makes me want to die (but also fic idea ? fuckin who knows, fuck)

Steve wakes up to the smell of hair products and drool on his back. Billy is plastered over him like a scorching blanket, skin to skin and altogether not hot enough.

It got cold, real fucking cold, during the night, and Steve wants to do nothing more than curl into the warmth behind him. Never been _allowed_ to even want to, so Steve, being himself, does it just to give a big fuck you to the world. Well, most of the world. He's quite happy with his section of the world right now, sequestered into a town no one knows and surrounded by people who'll never care. 

Billy’s toes are tangled with his own where the blanket has ridden up. Their legs are pressed together, and Steve thinks that this might be what domesticity feels like. It’s kind of sweaty. But nice, in a way.

Nice in a way that sort of tastes like morning mouth, especially when he turns around to claim Billy’s. It’s just a short, chaste thing, because he’s comfortable and tired and really wants to just watch Billy sleep.

 _I’m fucking creepy,_ Steve thinks, and has a vivid flashback to when Jonathan had done something not entirely different. It’s a bit funny how things work out.

Billy looks so-

So young. When he’s asleep, the years of abuse seem to slide off him like water. His face rounds out a bit when he’s not so invested in keeping it stern, and the line of his mouth isn’t so harsh. Steve traces the drooping, half-crescent moon of Billy’s closed eyelids with his gaze, studies the plump of his cheek. There’s something so captivating about him, right here.

_God, he’s so beautiful._

Watching Billy wake up is so fucking good. Like, watching someone pop a cig after sex and then breathing in the smoke through their kiss, good. It’s like he’s becoming intoxicated just through the touch and scent of Billy.

Letting out a sleepy moan, Billy tucks closer to Steve, latching onto his forehead like a leech. He licks the area, the presses a line of kisses down Steve’s nose. It’s all just really cathartic to Steve.

Steve sees the exact moment when Billy really wakes up, though, because his eyes recast in a darker light, innocence dropping back into the deep, dark pit of his heart. Even though Steve’s subtly been working with Billy to stop him from hiding himself, it’s a slow process.

Even now, he can see all the progress they’ve made, together. It shows in the way that Billy relinquishes his control over his heart, lets it go, just a bit. Shows in the way Billy’s hand comes up and wipes the spit off of Steve’s face, then pushes the other hand through Steve’s bedhead hair. Shows, terribly well, when he smiles, faintly, and nudges Steve’s knee with his own.

Billy pulls back with a sigh. It sounds forlorn, except if the other boy ever heard Steve describe him like that he’d be flat on his back in an instant.

“Wha’ time issit?” Billy asks, voice slurred. Yawning wide and loud, Billy rubs the remaining crud out of his eyes.

Steve doesn’t really know, so he looks at the alarm clock on his bedside table.

“Eight,” Steve replies, like that’s a perfectly acceptable time to get up. The storm still rages on outside of his window so there still isn’t any decent light, but he can still make out the disgust in Billy’s face just fine.

“Too early, is what,” Billy snorts, stuffing his face into the pillow they’ve been sharing. His toes tangle again with Steve’s, and, that’s-

 _(A bit perfect,_ Steve's mind supplies him, but he tells it to shut up. And despite his valiant, best efforts, it doesn’t really work. Steve doesn’t know if he even really _wants_ it to.)

“You still want food? I can’t promise it’ll be any good, though.”

“Wasn’t hoping it would be,” Billy says. The casual tone of his voice makes Steve want to try his damned hardest, just to prove a point, but he feels nice and languid and in a temptingly good mood.

He’s sort of scared to ruin the atmosphere by being stupid, but he’s Steve. It’ll happen eventually.

“Don’t be too disappointed when I burn yours,” Steve mutters under his breath, just loud enough for Billy to hear. He throws a sly smirk at Billy when he makes a muffled groan, the pillow catching most of the sound. “Whatever,” he laughs out when Billy kicks his warm thigh with a cold foot half-heartedly.

Steve takes a moment to appreciate Billy’s bare, muscled back, but turns away when he gets the funny idea in his head to suck a hickey there. That’d been one of the first rules implemented by Billy way-back-when, and still continued to be the _only_ one he upheld. And Steve’s not _that_ much of a dick to do it.

(At least not where it’s easily visible. One time, bent down and _thriving_ between Billy’s legs, he’d sucked one on, right where the thickest muscle connected with his pelvis. Steve had just given the teenager a particularly stunning orgasm- one of many that night- and wasn’t really thinking when he used his tongue and lips and teeth and breath and marked Billy in such a way that really made Billy _his.)_

The thought is daringly temping, but he knows the repercussions of doing it, so. He doesn’t. Just pushes it to the back of his brain and grabs a pair of pyjama slacks. They droop down to his feet, bunching and pulling around his ankles in such a way that tells him that they aren’t his, but Billy’s.

He imagines that they’ve definitely had enough time to accidentally misplace clothes and other miscellaneous items at Steve’s place, all coalescing together into one big amalgamation of _them._ There’s no doubt that that should mean something, but he doesn’t really think it needs thinking about.

Steve’s house feels empty even with his parents in it, so when there’s no one else but him there it’s almost unbearable. He used to have friends to fill that gap in a superficial way, and then Nancy is a more heart-heavy one. Then, it was just him. Alone, mostly.

Turning the corner of the staircase, keeping his footsteps quiet, so, so quiet, Steve briefly thinks of Billy waiting upstairs and finds just a little bit of strength. His hands feel a little bit less shaky when he runs them through his hair, perking it back up a bit. It feels a bit more alive and less like the dead mop it really is.

He’s gotten out the pans and sprays necessary to cook something that could actually constitute breakfast when another loud spring of lightning thunders outside. Steve fumbles with a steel pan, and it clangs against the stove loudly before he can catch it.

Steve startles; pretty badly. Has to take a second to stare dully out the window, even.

It’s fucking pitiful, if he’s being honest with himself. He starts on breakfast while he berates himself in his mind, but doesn’t really think that much can be done right now. If Steve admits defeat here, then he’s practically saying he can’t handle supernatural events with as much grace as literal _kids_ do.

Maybe he’ll never get over it. The thought makes him want to sit down and curl into something warm and toned and maybe he’s thinking of Billy, just a smidgeon, but is that even that bad? Or, surprising, for that matter?

Pancakes are easy to make, and he’s had a lot of practice with it. Cooking is something he’s always had to do for himself, and had learned to do it better when he had someone to cook _for._

Except now, it’s not just himself. It’s not just a late, morning-after snack for Nancy before she went back to her house, high on excuses of being over at a friend's. Billy’s going to be here- presumably for the whole weekend- and Steve doesn’t just want to make food.

He wants to make _breakfast._

“So fuckin’ stupid,” he mutters, swallowing and wiping at the top of his lip with a slightly greasy finger. All Steve accomplishes is that he makes the area dirty, and he’s kind of too lazy to go back for the towel on the kitchen island.

When he’s completed a good batch of pancakes, Steve opens up the fridge. He goes straight for the blueberries, pilfering one and popping his mouth. It’s sweet and tangy, and he chews it slowly, rubbing at his bare stomach.

He nabs the syrup and butter as well, going as quick as possible so as to not get blasted by the cold air. Steve’s a bit unsure as to why he didn’t throw on a shirt when it’s ass-fuck degrees both inside the house and out, but he’s not bothered enough by the chill to go and grab one. And he’ll be going back upstairs fairly soon, which means blankets and another body and everything else that’s important in the early hours of the morning.

When he plates the food- looking absolutely fucking delicious and if Billy says _anything_ bad he’s going to go in on his ass- Steve can’t help himself from grabbing another few blueberries. He puts all the materials back while the syrup oozes down the side and the butter melts, berries placed delicately on top like he’s some sort of chef.

There’s five apiece, so it’s not hard to balance the two plates between his hands. Silverware gets placed on top last, a silver fork and knife per plate.

Billy is still down for the count when Steve re-enters the room. The strong curve of his back remains on full display, and Steve can’t help but lick his bottom lip at it. There’s a moment where he completely forgets the plates in his hands, and he fumbles with them when they start to tip sideways.

“Havin’ trouble?” Billy calls from the bed. When Steve looks back again, Billy’s eyes are locked on him.

Steve Kicking a pair of sneakers as he passes, Steve just rolls his eyes and stops at the edge of the bed.

“Do you even _want_ food?” Steve questions, quirking his brow. The flash of Billy’s grin is fucking tempting, though, so he just rolls his eyes and clambers onto the bed. He carefully continues balancing the two plates above his head as he crawls on top of the covers by his knees, cutlery making background noise. “I even put some pizazz in it.”

“Pizazz? Really, Harrington?” Billy says, but there’s no heat behind the words. A few months ago he might’ve said it with a tighter edge, one that felt more like a knife and less like a playful arm shove. The word _queer_ hangs on the tip of his mind, but is quickly discarded when Billy’s demeanor doesn’t change.

He’s slowly finding himself clinging less and less to the old shit that used to clutter his mind. But when there’s new trash filling in those spaces, is it really even better?

(Billy’s blunt fingernails on his hip as he tugs Steve closer, bringing their lips together in a deep, yet quick manner before they settle down under the blankets, eating and consuming but not just with their mouths, nor their eyes, but with their hearts as well, is all a testament to how much better this is. It’s like breathing after drowning.)

There’s an easiness to the space between them that Steve wants to close, but also wants to remain open. He enjoys the feeling of _choice._

Because Billy was never an ultimatum, never the one Steve thought he should like, or the one everyone else thought he was supposed to be; it may have been all of those things, once, but right now-

Right now, it’s about the fact that Billy could leave and never come back, but also that Steve can ask him to _stay._ And that out of some fucking actual miracle, Billy would probably choose to, even without Steve’s permission.

Steve watches the way Billy rolls the fork around the plate, gathering up the syrup onto his sliver of pancake and biting into it with a lewd tenderness. Tries not to watch too hard when that brief slip of tongue darts out to his chin to wipe away the excess fluid. Carefully looks down at his own plate when they talk, soft murmurs and steady whispers that are so goddamn loud in the quiet, but not loud enough for Steve to really absorb what they’re saying properly.

When they reach the end of their plates, Billy scores his thumb across the plate and sucks on it, bringing it back, back, back into his mouth and letting go with a pop. Steve has to swallow on his own arousal, thick and sweet like the meal they had just eaten.

“Feelin’ alright there, Steve?” Billy asks, and fuck does it sound fucking good hearing his name on those stupid, terrible lips. “Want a repeat of last night?”

“That would be, uh,” Steve swallows again, particularly loudly, “great. Bit more than great, actually.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

And it really _is_ great, when Billy goes down on him, lapping up Steve’s taste and his essence and his everything, just like Steve knew it would be. Billy’s got a smile on the whole time, looking like he just won the lottery when he finishes Steve off with his hand, mouth attached to that one part of Steve’s throat that makes him go fucking crazy, because even though he can’t mark up Billy, Billy sure as hell can do it to Steve.

But even though Steve can’t really leave any mark on him that shows how truly taken Billy is, he knows just how fucking much Billy is _his_ by the hands in his hair that clutch and pull, the look in Billy’s eyes when Steve looks up through his lashes, Billy’s cock all the way down his throat and he’s fucking gagging on it, his thighs shaking against Steve’s neck when he swallows every last drop of Billy's sperm-

 _(Yeah, Steve knows what that all means, and it’s fucking_ screaming _yours, yours, yours.)_


End file.
